Part III

Listen ! it is the Passing Bell.
Lift up thy heart to God and pray
A soul is passing, — who can tell
How prayer may help it on its way !

Where art thou ? In the glitt'ring throng
Of busy triflers, idly gay,
With jest and revel, dance and song,
Laughing the hours of life away !

The world around thee fresh and fair ;
No dream that thou and it must part,
No burden of the lightest care
Resting a moment on thy heart ;

Life's pulse within thee throbbing high,
Life's path before thee smooth and bright,
No cloud across thy summer sky,
No thought that day must end with night ;

No purpose past the present hour,
Its pleasures only to possess,
The fruit forgotten in the flow'r,
No higher aim than happiness ;

Thy foot upon the flow'ry path,
Thy heart upon the floating breeze ;
Its chief delight existence hath
If only it hath pow'r to please.

Softly the jocund viols sound,
Swiftly the measured dances glide
In giddy mazes, circling round,
Joy and the joyful side by side.

Visions of hope, and dreams of love,
Bright eyes and forms surpassing fair
Their spells enweaving, round thee move
And fill with light the perfumed air.

No slight, no failure, no mischance
Disturbs this night's illusive charm ;
The fairest partners of the dance
Hang pleased on thy delighted arm.

Sweet words of gently whisper'd praise
Into thine ear enraptured steal ;
The prideful pleasure which they raise
Thou wouldst not, if thou couldst, conceal.

The incense laid upon its Shrine
Self, half disowning, still receives ;
Affects the homage to decline,
Yet wholly in itself believes.

With merry clash the cymbals ring,
Swiftly beneath the flying bow
Thrills into voice each trembling string,
Now sharp and clear, now soft and low.

In choral harmony reply
The breathing flute and mellow horn ;
Fleetly the winged hours go by,
And flash into the rising morn.

One giddy whirl, one gay galop,
One last, wild burst of thoughtless glee,
Then the long cherish'd dream of hope
Becomes a thing of memory.

The last kind courtesies are paid,
Soft nothings breathed in watchful ears,
Lightly the last fare-wells are said,
And the bright vision disappears.

Freshly upon thy throbbing brow
The night-wind plays with purpose kind ;
As sigh'd it oft so sighs it now,
And soothes thee to a calmer mind.

The stillness of the quiet hour,
Contrasted with the fev'rish scene
Just left, like dew or gentle show'r
Falls on the heart, and keeps it green.

Thy truer self to thee returns,
A higher hope within thee glows,
And after something better yearns
Than the world's emptiness bestows.

Thy path lies off the beaten road
Over an old familiar stile —
The way back to thine own abode
'Twill shorten by almost a mile.

Leaving the throng of parting guests,
Lights glaring, shouts of lacqueys rude,
Thy wearied eye with comfort rests
Upon the wooded solitude.

Deep in its shadows thou dost hide
Thyself from all the world around ;
"With hasty and excited stride
Up the steep pathway thou dost bound.

Through tangled copse, the well-worn way
Thine undirected steps doth lead,
Down where the rippling brooklets stray,
And out across the dewy mead.

A wicket-gate is reach'd, and yields
To touch of thy familiar hand ;
Leaving the fresh and open fields
Now in a garden thou dost stand.

The breath of flow'rs is on the air,
The gentle night-wind cannot miss
To gather sweetness everywhere
From woodbine, rose, or clematis.

The richer perfumes of the day
At sunset had not left it quite,
But loved, like happy ghosts, to stay
And haunt those garden grounds by night.

Down by the quiet gravel walk
That toward the house accustom'd bends,
The scene of many a saunt'ring talk
With one the dearest of thy friends,

Drawn by a secret spell, thy feet
Bring thee unconscious to the door,
As if thou didst expect to meet
There, one who ne'er shall meet thee more.

Thy trembling heart and timid eye
Rise to that window known so well.
'Tis lighted — shadows flitting by
Their tale of inward sorrow tell.

With bated breath, and watchful ear,
And figure stretching through the gloom
With eager strain, intent to hear
What passes in the silent room ;

How changed from him who lately sped
Through the bright world his thoughtless way,
Its pleasures shared, its revels led,
Himself the gayest of the gay !

Now thy whole soul in one long gaze
Up to that lighted window strains.
Wond'ring what each one does or says
Behind its closely curtain'd panes.

The sash is lower'd, to admit
To the sick room the morning air ;
No longer shadows past it flit,
But the soft murmuring voice of prayer

Falls on thine ears,— and to thy grief
Comes like the breathing of a sigh,
That gives the struggling heart relief,
And comforts, though it know not why.

Oh ! what an hour, alone with God
To hear His voice, to learn His will
Take His rebuke, and kiss the rod,
Bow to His judgments, and be still !

Listen ! for from the vale below
The Church her people's sorrow shares,
Letting her living children know
One who is dying asks their prayers.

Listen ! It is the Passing Bell.
Lift up thy heart to God and pray.
A soul is passing,— who can tell
How prayer may help it on its way !

There, dying in that chamber, lies
The dearest friend thy life hath known ;
Mix'd up with all the memories
Which are most tenderly thine own.

Playmate of childhood— forced to bend,
E'en then, to thy superior will—
School-fellow ; later, college friend;
Affianced brother later still.

The cords of life and love entwined
Each to the other closer drew.
As daily both, in heart and mind,
Into more perfect oneness grew.

Ardent, and gen'rous to a fault
Was he who now lies dying there ;
The texture of his being fraught
With something wondrous frail and fair ;

Warm and impulsive to all good,
Yet not to every purpose true ;
The nobler, better things he would,
He had not always strength to do ;

Leader of others, with the bright
Assurance of his trustful soul,
And yet not always in the right,
Nor strong enough for self-control ;

His brow a temple God did bless
With glorious thoughts through it to move ;
His heart in all its tenderness
A well-spring of unfathom'd love.

Great gifts to him their wealth did bring,
Fair graces fain would round him wait ;
Genius to crown him as a king,
And gentleness to make him great.

Yet all, alas ! so lightly held
In grasp unconscious of their worth,
That now the tree, in blossom fell'd,
Falls, ere its time of fruit, to earth.

No purpose of his life attain'd,
No promise of his youth fulfilled ;
The fair foundations still remain'd,
But he had never strength to build.

Spoilt fav'rite of a flattering world —
That in its pageant loved to see
The bright but giddy thing it whirl'd
To ruin all so recklessly.

Never again its waves to ride,
Or be its sport or plaything more,
That world now, with its ebbing tide,
Hath left him stranded on the shore.

No loathsome sins, no foul disgrace
Defiled his soul, or stain'd his name ;
A fair and honourable place
In the world's roll he still may claim.

A loyal son, a brother true,
In dealings just, in friendship sure;
In manners modest, and — where few
Alas ! are not found wanting — pure.

But all his life an aimless waste,
A pathway plann'd, but never trod ;
And all his hopes on self misplaced,
With nothing done for man or God.

One backward look through life is cast,
Where these sad mem'ries crowded lie-
As drowning men see all the past
In one brief moment ere they die.

The door is open, whence he went
Who ran to seek the Church's aid ;
An instant more, and thou art bent
Low in that room's depressing shade,

Head-buried in the death-tost bed,
In the world's festive garments dress'd.
Within the chamber of the dead
A Strange and unrelated guest.

But yesterday, when thou didst stand
Beside him in that very place,
Holding his parch 'd and fever'd hand,
And looking in his pallid face,

Thy thoughts and words were far astray,
The one on pleasure idly bent,
The other fearful to betray
What was thy hidden mind's intent.

Thy manner more than usual kind,
And yet not false, as thou didst feel,
But forced, as if there lay behind
Something which thou wouldst fain conceal.

" He still may linger, still may burn
Longer awhile life's flick'ring light,
And I to-morrow will return,
And cheer with tidings of to-night."

Such thy fond flatt'ring thoughts to hide
From thine own heart, and from thy friend
What will be done, but won't abide
Thy poorest effort to defend.

Now there he lies, and never more
Shall his eye lighten to behold
Thy coming; life's short struggle o'er,
The fire is quench'd, the hearth is cold.

O ! what a tide of troubled thought
Over thy prostrate soul sweeps by !
With every wave some treasure brought
Out of the deep of memory.

Such happy, but such careless hours,
Such vanish'd hopes and faded schemes,
Such heaps of crush'd and wither'd flow'rs
All gather'd in a world of dreams !

And nothing left from all the years
Of spring-tide fresh, and summer fair,
But vain regrets and useless tears,
And that poor lifeless body there.

One wild heart-burst, one fervent vow
Laid on the altar of that bed,
Then rise, and leave the chamber now
To those whose hands compose the dead.

Go back to life a better man ;
Thy broken vows to God renew j
He who hath grace to will, he can,
Through God's good help, have strength to do.

Dawn, with its gold and silver streak
Of light, along the mountains spread,
Shows where the day begins to break
Ere evening's glow be wholly fled.

Soon, fresh and moist with morning dews,
He'll shine in eastern splendour drest,
Ere his long train's last roseate hues
Quite leave the chambers of the west

The small birds their low twitterings breathe
Under the ivy-cluster'd eaves,
And rustling turn to wake beneath
Their dewy counterpane of leaves.

The nightingale his gushing song
Pours pensive through the sleeping grove,
While all the copses round prolong
The tale of his impassion'd love.

The breaking of another day
Is on the cloud-wrapt world below ;
Night's shadows, as they flee away,
Blush into beauty as they go.

The lark is on his upward wing,
His song to Heav'n still higher soars ;
He cannot help himself but sing,
And praise the God whom he adores.

Still is the lightly sleeping earth
Awaking without stir or sound ;
The dews of the young morning's birth,
Like last night's jewels, on the ground.

Fresh is the gently sighing breeze
That, with its pure and perfumed air,
Comes whisp'ring through the rustling trees,
As if the Lord Himself were there.

And God in all — in morning's light
Spread the grey mountain tops along,
The coming day, the parting night,
The stilly silence, and the song ;

The balmy air, the glist'ning dew,
Shadow and gleam in gentle strife ;
The breath we breathe, whose draughts renew
The happy consciousness of life ;

In rock and mountain, field and tree,
In silent vale, and babbling stream,
Wrapt and reveal'd in mystery,
Music His voice, and Love His theme.

Let thy heart open to the bliss
He would breathe in through every pore.
Live but in Him, thou canst not miss
His mercies in their boundless store.

This world so fair His hand did make
Delightsome for the sons of men ;
Sin-spoilt — His very heart did break
Ere He could set it right again.

Yet, though so fall'n, primaeval grace
Still lingers round the ruin'd shrine ;
Not even sin could quite deface
All tokens of the Hand Divine.

'Twill lift us upward nearer Him,
'Twill help toward Heav'n each fond desire-
Like ruin'd stairs, time-worn and dim,
Which yet suffice to help us higher.

Once, we may think, there was a time
When, perfect, they were easier trod j
And so this world, in its pure prime,
Was once an easier way to God.

But still 'tis glorious, and the path
Even of its fallen beauty lies
Open to love, and clear for faith,
Step after step into the skies.

Go ! take thy fill of joy that's pure
Out of God's thousand springs of love.
Go ! rest thee on the Rock that's sure,
Which neither change nor chance can move.

He wills His people to be glad ;
Sin only can their peace destroy;
He never made thee to be sad
Who gave thee such a heart for joy. )

He calls thee not to cloister'd cell,
Though there some safest service find,
Ten thousand thousands serve Him well
In happy commune with their kind,

In social gladness, in the flow
Of genial spirits gently bright,
In home, Heav'n's truest type below,
And blameless in its pure delight ;

In intercourse of thought, in all
The chequerings of repose and strife,
"Which make up, as they rise and fall,
Th' excitement and the stir of life ;

In action, passion, every thing
That tends to give its temper high,
In doing and in suffering,
To sanctified humanity —

In these, as furnace fires, to prove,
Through daily trial, what we can
Do for our God, while skilful Love
On life's stern anvil moulds the man.

Such is His purpose — yield thy heart
To that restoring Hand, which would
Make the poor broken thing thou art,
Like its first pattern, " very good."

God gave His love in priceless store
To man in Christ's humanity ;
Christ brake the casket, all to pour
Its precious ointment upon thee.

Grudge not the living sacrifice
Of a life fashion'd to His will ;
Its own reward within it lies ;
But, should He ask for greater still,

Break at His feet, if He require,
Life's alabaster casket fair ;
And every thought and fond desire
Pour out in adoration there.

Nothing too costly to lay down
For Him, whose smile pays every loss ;
Could we but see it, there's a crown
Hangs, halo-like, round every cross.

Love is its own reward, and small
His share, whose soul does not believe
That he who hath it hath the all
That God can give, or man receive.